


By a Thread

by iselsis



Series: Whump"tober" 20"20" [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Escape, Gen, Hanging, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jason Todd is Robin, Kidnapping, Waking up Restrained, Whumptober 2020, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26766778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iselsis/pseuds/iselsis
Summary: Jason Todd ran off to prove to Batman that he's capable of handling himself. Unfortunately, he wasn't, and now he's been caught and tortured by c-list criminals. Batman doesn't know where he is. Batman doesn't even know that he's gone. And there is no way that he's getting out of this alone.His help is...not what he'd expected.
Relationships: Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne
Series: Whump"tober" 20"20" [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950982
Comments: 38
Kudos: 407





	By a Thread

**Author's Note:**

> About an hour late, but I love causing my readers emotional suffering too much to not jump on this train. This was written in just a couple hours and has minimal editing, so please have the mercy on me which I didn't have on Jason. Enjoy!

Waking up was more trouble than it was worth. His head ached like he’d been pummeled into the pavement by Killer Croc. Repeatedly. With _vengeance_. His torso stung viciously, his shoulders burned, he couldn’t feel his hands, and he wasn’t looking down to count how many pieces his left ankle was in.

Was that what had happened? What _had_ happened?

Jason grimaced as he tried to remember. He didn’t like taking painkillers – not after what happened to his mom – but he would have taken them for something _this_ bad. So why had he- 

Everything came rushing back.

Bruce’s broken leg. Jason’s confidence that he could patrol alone. Sneaking out. Pretending to himself that he only wanted to protect the citizens of Gotham, when he really just wanted to impress Bruce. Trying to stop a drug deal, and getting caught by a c-list gang that Bruce would have wiped the floor with. The beating, the burning jabs from the cattle prod, the man stomping hard on his ankle “to break the pretty bird’s wing,” and the knowledge that he was a miserable failure.

Jason’s eyes burned with self-condemnation. Bruce would never forgive him for this. He was going to figure out exactly how stupid of an idea it was to try and train a good-for-nothing, impulsive little street rat to be Robin and cut his losses. Even if he didn’t kick Jason out, it would only be because Jason _clearly_ wasn’t trustworthy and he’d probably worry that Jason would spill the secret, and because the media would have a field day with Bruce Wayne kicking out Little Orphan Annie. The days of praise after a good training session, soft smiles when Bruce thought he wasn’t looking, awkward hugs becoming less stiff and awkward on both sides over the course of a year…those were for Robin, not Jason. 

And he _deserved it_.

He had to get away. Maybe, _maybe_ if he proved that he could get himself out of his messes, then Bruce would let him stay on. 

What was he supposed to do first? He took a deep breath, trying to remember the “what to do when you’re captured” rundown that Bruce had given him after he’d officially decided to stay. When, not if, because Bruce Wayne was Bruce Wayne and Gotham was Gotham.

Step One: take a deep breath.

Nailed it.

Step Two: take stock of your injuries.

That was a bit harder. 

The mask was still on his face, so they apparently hadn’t figured out how to get it off. That was good. His identity hadn’t been compromised, then. The secret…that’s what those men had wanted. Names. Locations. Financers, allies, anything.

Opening his eyes was hell. They were both swollen, and one of the lenses had cracked, creating a spiderweb over his right eye. He let that eye close, since it was useless, but that just made his left eye jealous. 

No time for that, though. He had to work quickly, before anyone came back to get him. 

First, his ankle. He tried to move it, but _hell_ no, it was definitely broken. He bit his lip hard to keep from crying out.

Second, his torso. It felt like he’d been stung by a nest of hornets, but he knew it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. The suit would have protected him from at least some of the current. Not _enough_ , but some.

Third, his face. He grimaced, then winced at the grimace. A concussion was not going to be fun to run with, but there was no way that he didn’t have one. 

No complaining. Robins don’t complain, Robins press on.

Fourth, his shoulders. They burned, but the rest of his arms…did not exist. He couldn’t feel them. 

Jason frowned and looked around for his missing appendages, and oh _joy_ , they were chained to a hook in the ceiling. Great. He couldn’t reach his lockpicks, which would be in the utility belt his attackers must have been unable to figure out how to get off of him, and he couldn’t reach the panic button in his Robin insignia either. He gave a token effort to try and wriggle his hands free, but they were well and truly stuck. 

He could feel the panic tightening his chest and throat, making it so hard to breathe, he swallowed hard and forced himself to stay calmish. 

There were more steps.

Step Three: take stock of your surroundings.

Jason’s feet didn’t completely reach the floor, but he could prop himself up on his toes and spin like a ballerina with only mild anguish, so he did. 

The room was dark, but the dim glow of a distant streetlight coming in through the cracked window gave him enough light to see by. It was a small room, empty except for him and a few crates. Given the hook in the ceiling, maybe some kind of butcher’s storage room? It felt like a long shot, but he couldn’t think of anything else. Not that it mattered; he was going through the window when he got free anyway, not the splintery wooden door across from it.

He turned back toward the window and tried to get as good a look out it as he could. Judging by the building outside and how much of them he could see, he was on at least the second floor. Probably not much higher, though, judging by the shadows the streetlight was casting. Okay, climbing out a two-story window with a broken ankle. Not the stupidest thing he’d ever done, but probably one of the more painful.

Step Four: locate your enemies.

Despite the unavoidable clinking of his chains and the scuffing of his feet proving that he was awake, no one had entered the room, so there was probably no one directly outside his door. That was good. 

Step Five: do whatever your identity will allow you to do to escape.

Robin, unlike Jason Todd, was allowed to try whatever he wants in a situation like this. There was, unfortunately, very little he could actually do. 

The most obvious problem was the chains. He needed to get rid of them if he wanted even a shot at escaping. 

He took a few more deep breaths and tried to think of what he needed to do, then how he could do it, just like B taught him to do. 

He needed to unlock the chains, or break his hands to get them out. He crossed out the breaking his hands idea pretty quickly. He couldn’t climb with his ankle _and_ his hands broken. That meant that he’d need to unlock the chains, which meant that he had to get his hands to his utility belt.

It took him a few minutes to come up with a plan: he could grab the chains, then use them to climb hand-over-hand to the beam they were hanging from. It didn’t look especially strong, but it was already holding most of his weight. Once he was up there, he would have enough slack in the chains to get his lock picks out and free himself. He could deal with the agony that would be getting down after that.

Jason flexed his numb fingers, watching to make sure that they were responding to his directions. Then, he grabbed around the lead chain and pulled himself up, like he’d done on the ropes in the cave a thousand times.

His shoulders screamed in agony so surprising and so hard that he lost his grip and collapsed. His toes all hit the ground, sending a spear of pain through his entire body. A cry tore his pained throat before he could catch himself, and his shoulders were jarred hard by the sudden jerk. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out again, but he couldn’t stop the tears that spilled over and pooled, trapped, under his eyes. Even worse than the physical pain was what it meant: he wasn’t getting free himself, and even if Bruce saw fit to rescue him, he would never be Robin again.

He found himself almost wishing that they’d just come and kill him already. Bruce wouldn’t know that he’d even gone until at least the next morning when he wouldn’t come down for breakfast, and if he did decide to save him, he was going to have to call someone else to do it. Probably Jason’s dick big brother, who could gloat all he wanted about how useless and unworthy of the Robin colors Jason was, but this time, Bruce would agree with him. 

As though summoned by the sound of Jason hitting the bottom, but more likely by the sound of Jason hitting the floor and the aftermath of that, the door handle began to rattle.

Jason’s breath caught in his throat, and he fought to pull himself together. He didn’t actually think that they’d come so quickly. He hadn’t really made his choice on whether he was suicidal or not, and he was rapidly leaning towards the “I don’t want to die at thirteen” end of the spectrum.

The rattling stopped, and Jason had time for one breath before the light scratch of metal on metal reverberated through the nearly silent room. Then, the lock clicked. Another pause, then the door was eased open.

There was a gasp – a disturbingly _young_ gasp – then a small head was poked into the room.

Jason felt a swell of anger. Had they sent a _grade schooler_ to come have a go? It would hurt like hell, but a well placed kick to the jaw would punish that idea.

“Robin?” the kid whispered in horror.

“Come closer,” Jason snarled, his voice hoarse and painful. He vaguely remembered a lot of screaming before he had been punched out. He’d kind of been hoping that it had been the other guy. “And find out.”

Apparently taking it as an invitation and not a threat, the kid hurried into the room and nearly silently closed the door behind him. 

The kid approached quickly, but stopped outside of kicking range. Dammit, Jason had been looking forward to at least _one_ victory.

“’m not,” Jason panted, “a freakshow.”

“Robin…” the boy whispered, his shocked stare turning sad. Was the _kid_ about to cry? The hell, Jason hadn’t even kicked him yet.

What was even up with the kid, anyway? He was standing in the main shaft of light from the window, showing his dark, probably black hair, pasty as glue skin, and the broad strokes of his silhouette. His clothes didn’t look particularly expensive, but they also didn’t look as hand-me-downed as most clothes kids in this part of town usually wore. He was also wearing some kind of purse, like a dweeb. Was that a camera bag? The kid was like, nine, why did he have a camera, in this part of town? How could he even afford it?

“I saw them grab you,” the kid said blankly, then his gaze snapped from dazed horror to sharp determination. “I'll get you out of here. One sec.”

That made no sense, but nothing about the kid made sense. Jason stared at the kid and watched as he grabbed one of the crates and pushed it over so that it was directly in front of Jason. That kept Jason from being able to kick him, disappointingly. 

The kid scrambled onto the crate and pulled out a set of lockpicks. 

“Wha-” Jason frowned. The blows had gone to his head, definitely, because there was no way he had some baby rich kid guardian angel who had come to rescue him from the clutches of a gang. 

Maybe he was dead. Well, that sucked, but at least he’d get to see his mom if he was in hell. His dad would be there too, but maybe they could avoid each other. He’d kind of been hoping that the Robin gig would push him over the heaven threshold, but judging by the amount of pain he was in, apparently he’d failed at that, just like he’d failed at everything else. He could just be sleeping, too, or maybe they’d drugged him to get some answers.

The kid – hallucination, vision, stress-induced dream – seemed to blush, but it was hard to tell. “I learned how to pick locks to get onto roofs for better angles. I’m not really very good.”

Not what he’d expected, but sure, he could accept that. Made sense? No. But, hey, he’d been briefly adopted by a billionaire who hit people while dressed as his fursona. He could deal with whatever was happening.

One lock sprang, and his left hand fell numbly to his side. He gasped as all his weight became supported by his right wrist and toes, and also because of the slow pain as blood began to rush back into his arm. It all felt real. Not a dream, then, probably. That left Hell, drugs, or the bizarre reality that was Gotham. He didn’t feel high at all, and everything but the weird kid looked normal enough. And why would he get a guardian angel in Hell?

The second lock sprang, and Jason fell backwards, hard. The air was knocked out of chest, or he would have screamed at the rush of pain from every injury he had. The world didn’t seem to even exist outside of pure, white-hot agony for he didn’t know how long.

When the pain lowered to drastic but manageable suffering, the kid was leaning over him, looking even paler than he had before. 

“Robin? I’m so sorry, I didn’t think that would happen. Can you walk? We have to get out of here,” the kid whispered.

Jason bit his lip hard to suppress a groan, and reached up, putting an arm around the kid’s neck. Luckily, the kid seemed to get the idea and held onto Jason’s arm with one hand, then looped the other one around Jason’s waist and stood up.

There was no way he was going to be able to climb that wall, and probably no way the kid would either.

“How’d you get up?” he rasped.

“The bad guys are all downstairs, passed out. I saw a lot of bottles,” the kid told him. “I just came in the front door once it was quiet and looked around until I found you.”

Jason grunted his understanding. The bastards had probably been celebrating catching a Bat. The pride goeth before the fall and all that.

“You…” Words. “Crutch.”

The kid nodded dutifully and took a step forward. With the kid supporting his compromised left side, Jason was able to hobble weakly along after him. Luckily, the kid was at perfect crutch height. 

The kid led the way down the hall to a flight of rickety metal stairs. Jason’s heart sank. The kid noticed him tensing and nudge Jason closer to the wall, so that he could lean against that on the descent. 

It was slow going, practically hopping one footed down every step and praying that he didn’t fall, but then they were at the bottom and moving quickly toward the front door. Jason was sure that something was about to go horribly wrong, and they were about to be caught, but nothing happened. A glance over his shoulder found all the men, just as the kid had said, passed out on a couple filthy couches.

The kid slowly, quietly opened the door, and Jason wanted to kick him again to hurry him along. He didn’t, though, because the kid was being smarter than Jason would. 

After that, they were home free. Well, not home, but in the middle of Gotham free.

And Jason had no idea how to get home.

He wasn’t _lost_ ; all he’d need was a street sign to place himself accurately on the mental map of Gotham that Bruce had drilled into his head before ever letting him touch the cape. The problem was that he couldn’t walk alone, and a downed Robin is a dead Robin. He couldn’t call a taxi, either, and the bastards had stolen his comm. He wasn’t sure that the panic button would even summon Bruce if the man wasn’t in the cave or wearing the suit. 

He gave it a try, anyway, with his shaking still-numb fingers as the pair of them hobble down a block or so before the kid dragged him into an alley. The adrenaline in his system was starting to crash, dammit, and he knew that he was going to be close behind it. The kid would maybe have a cell phone he could use to call Bruce or Alfred, but then he’d be leaving a phone number connected to his civilian identity in the hands of a stranger.

The kid settled them both behind a dumpster, and Jason’s vision started to blur. 

He shook his head to stay awake. “Need- call-”

B could confiscate the phone and buy the kid a new one once he arrived. He needed help, now.

The kid nodded and pulled out his phone. “I’ll call Mr. Wayne, Jason. Everything’s okay. You can rest now.”

Jason nodded, and passed out before he realized exactly what the kid had just admitted.

When Jason half woke, he could hear Alfred talking. Where was he? Not his bed. Who was Tim? What was-

Jason forced his eyes open and looked up into two pairs of blue eyes above him. Arms – not the kid, not Bruce either. Alfred – hooked under Jason’s back and legs and lifted him into the air. Jason breathed out a sigh of relief. Even if B didn’t like Jason after he fired him from Robin, Alfred still would.

Jason was mostly conscious as he was bundled up in a blanket and buckled into the backseat of a car. His head lolled against the cool glass, and he breathed a sigh of relief. A tablet was placed in his mouth, and the plastic rim of a bottle against his lips. Jason gratefully downed the pill, not sure if it was a pain killer or a sedative, and a fair amount of the bottle. The room temperature water felt like heaven down his rough and painful throat. 

Jason closed his eyes and was about to go back to sleep when the door on the opposite side of the back seat closed. He glanced over in confusion, only to find the stranger kid glumly buckling into the other seat.

He frowned. Why were they kidnapping the kid? 

Wait.

Black hair, blue eyes, making dangerous decisions without parental supervision. 

Damn, they were adopting him, weren’t they?


End file.
